


STILL WITH ME

by egbert



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Stridercest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egbert/pseuds/egbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been at it for what feels like fuckin' hours because his shirt is sweat soaked, sticks to his back in the most un-fucking-pleasant way and Dirk would shred the thing to get it off, but Dave never lets up long enough for it to happen. He'd be surprised, impressed even, if it weren't so god damn annoying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They've been at it for what feels like _fuckin' hours_ because his shirt is sweat soaked, sticks to his back in the most un-fucking-pleasant way and Dirk would shred the thing to get it off, but Dave never lets up long enough for it to happen. He'd be surprised, impressed even, if it weren't so god damn annoying.  
  
Honestly -- sparring with a human is basically entirely fucking different than just going up against robots that he programmed himself. Sure, there were various settings. Ones that he was able to hit and slam up against and fight and push into without a problem. It was a challenge, one he thrived from and grew up with. But what Dave did?  
  
Shit was a 180 from what he's used to.  
  
Robots had predictable movements. Had a reaction delay if Dirk's foot stepped a different way than what it normally would. But Dave moved with him, slid around him and parried every strike. Dave had grown up fighting another human that was leaps and fucking bounds better than he was -- Dirk had a robot or two that he had to program the settings into. He had the upper hand with strength, but Dave's movements were fluid enough that he was able to keep up with Dirk and, when he really put the effort out, surpass him without much trouble.  
  
Each round left him more breathless than the first, shades left askew on his face from the last blow to it. Knocked his glasses almost clear off when he caught Dave's elbow. Lucky, really, since an elbow to the nose was actually far preferable to taking it to the windpipe. Fighting dirty, the asshole.  
  
The blood was just as sticky as the sweat, made it impossible to know what parts of him were actually suffering injury or just sticking from perspiration and aching from the exertion of a fight. It trickled from his nose after the elbow hit, stained his mouth and the copper taste was sharp against his tongue. It gave him a certain level of focus to have that added sense, to taste the defeat that seemed to be handed to him so _god damn easily._  
  
Dave's stance shifted, and Dirk got ready for round three.  
  
An unfortunately short one, really, because it takes one misstep for Dave to trip him up. Dirk lands heavily, smacks his head against the pavement while he's at it. He rolls over before Dave lands on top of him, straddling him at the base of his spine, and Dirk can't find it in himself to give a _single fuck_ because holy shit, exhaustion.  
  
As much as he doesn't want to admit it, damn he is winded. Exhausted and aching in ways that he can't remember being before. Between the robots and the Game, it never felt quite like this. In all their free time after the Game ended, strifing hadn't really been in the forefront of anyone's mind. It was more a fact of coping and starting over. Learning how to actually be capable, functioning members of society after what a clusterfuck all of them had experienced in the first place.  
  
(Lots of shit that none of them would really get into. Not even John who was all fuckin' talk, or Karkat who would yell at anyone willing to listen.)  
  
So strifing had been on the permanent back burner, and the same thing went for Dave as well. At least until one day when Dirk had come home from work and there was Dave, sword on the table, polished like it was brand new. There was no invitation required, it was a Strider tradition down to the core, even if it was practiced in different ways for both of them.  
  
Up to the roof they went, which is where Dirk had ended up now.  
  
Having his ass handed to him by his not-quite brother.  
  
Dave's knees dig against his sides and Dirk huffs out a noise of discomfort. "I know how choice this ass is, but you really need to learn some self-restraint with how critical you make it seem that you launch on it. Back the fuck up, yo."  
  
" _Nah_." Dave's response is so fucking non-committal that it might have actually irritated him if it wasn't something that Dirk did all too fucking often.  
  
There were similarities in them both, undeniable ones, but there was other shit that they saw in each other. Things of people who were long gone. And maybe it made this entire thing a bit more fucked up than it already was, aching for ghosts, but neither one of them made a habit of fucking complaining.  
  
(Well, not often.)  
  
Dirk does his best to try and squirm his way out from under Dave and his weight that winds up getting a little heavier when his muscles begin to give up from being worn and stretched and tired. But Dave's having none of it, far from it.  
  
Sword lands next to them, noisy on pavement, clatters and echoes against the low walls of the roof. Dirk can't remember where he let his fall, but it's hardly a concern now. Not with Dave on his back, pulling at fabric, pushing cotton over skin. He's careless about it, has no focus or thought other than getting it _off_ , because as soon as it's bunched around his shoulders but leaves his back exposed, Dave doesn't even bother trying to get it off the rest of the way. Dirk remedies that himself, peels it off and drops it down to concrete. It's fucking uncomfortable, bare skin against the grain of the roof, but there's no room for complaint here.  
  
Dave's hands are warm against his back skate up along his spine, over sweat slicked skin. Fingertips trace over shoulder blades, outline the bone, nails dragging over the skin that covers it. Dirk recognizes it well, knows the angry red marks that will be left behind, because it's something he's done to Dave far too many times to recall.  
  
But this, being reversed, having Dave pinning his hips to the ground to render him partially immobile-  
  
He can't quite tell if he wants to buck Dave off and slam him against the closest available surface in vengeance, but as soon as he actually _attempts_ that, Dave pushes himself down harder, digging a knee painfully into his side once again. Dirk does his best attempt to not let his irritation seep too far into his voice, "Fuck _off_ you obdurate brat."  
  
Dave scoffs, barely, just under his breath. Like he can't believe Dirk's behavior. "Stop being a bitch and stay still."  
  
"Why? Is that really the only way you can keep me in line? You really are rather obtuse, aren't you? I think I received all the brains in this genetic strain." The next struggle was so half-assed that it couldn't even really be classified as one. More for show, really, because when _wasn't_ Dirk a stubborn fuck. It still gets him a knee to the side again, though. That shit would _bruise_ and he'll reciprocate the favour as soon as he was able to.  
  
Unmoving beneath him, Dirk finally relaxes, flexes the muscles in his back to work the kinks from them to the best of his ability before he's able to actually able to feel some of the tension leave him. Dave's hands leave him when he does this, and the absence of his touch is fucking awful. But worse yet is when it returns.  
  
It's just one finger this time, presses at the base of his neck and drags his nail down along his spine, dips into every rivet and over every curve. He might count the vertebrae if he's paying enough attention, but Dirk isn't sure he is. Likely too concentrated on keeping it at such a measured, easy pace.  
  
Dirk's arms stretch out above him, makes his back muscles flex under flesh, pulling taut and relaxing again. Dave's finger pauses, briefly, when Dirk does this and for a moment, he thinks he fucking has him. Can roll them over and take back the control. Except that when he moves-  
  
Dave anticipates, reaches first. He grabs Dirk's wrists in his hands and leans forward, hovering over him, pinning his wrists to the ground beneath them, digging skin in against hard pavement. Painful – perhaps. Dave evidently doesn't give a shit, though.  
  
Instead, he keeps Dirk's hands there for a moment, like it's a lesson to learn. Turns out it is. "If you fucking move, I'm going to kick the shit out of you. Again." He squeezes around Dirk's wrist for emphasis before he pulls back and sits straight again, straddling Dirk once more.  
  
  
When Dave moves his hands, the pain that sears up along his back is iron hot, makes him hiss through his teeth before dropping his forehead to the ground. His breath fans out against it, scatters stones beneath him, and he _whines_ when Dave does it again. Fingers are digging in against wounds left behind by their fight, breaking them open from the dried blood that had once held them shut.  
  
Admittedly, it hurts like fucking hell, but neither of them will be surprised when Dirk's dick gets hard over it. So Dave continues, rakes nails through dried blood to break open fresh wounds and fingers drag through the blood that beads to the surface. Sweat mixes when Dave slides his fingers through again, makes them sting enough to send another jolt down, Dirk arching his back. More into the touch rather than away from the sting. Both send a thrum through him, vibrating in his veins and racing to the rest of his system.  
  
As much as he wants his precious control back, wants to fight for it, the anticipation of what Dave is bound to do next outweighs his desire to wrangle control from him. It doesn't help that whenever he moves in a way that Dave doesn't like, he presses hard against his back in places that _fucking hurt._  
  
The worrisome part is when Dave starts mumbling to himself, under his breath, and the sound of metal clattering to the ground only perpetuates the slight alarm that rushes through him. "What now, plannin' on MacGyvering shit into a se- _ah_ -"  
  
Cold metal settles between his shoulders, not moving once it finds the exact angle to dip in against his skin. Shit, shit, shit. The mumbling, once something that Dave had been mocked for mercilessly, turned out to be a habit. Retrieving things from this Sylladex had normally been done while sparring with his brother and saying them loud enough for him to hear put Dave at it disadvantage. Meant he was at least able to enunciate with the best of them, even when he was muttering under his breath.  
  
The tip of the blade is pressed in harder, digs between shoulders until he's sure it's going to break skin, but trails down instead. The blade tracks across his spine just like Dave's hand had, outlines every muscle and bone, but never actually leaves a mark behind. It's fucking maddening, because Dirk can't tell if he wants him to or if the idea of incorporating an actual knife is too fucking much. But the way Dave draws across his skin is just too god damn tempting and satisfying yet _not_ all at once.  
  
It's just a damn tease and Dirk's finding it impossible to keep still.  
  
The knife is abandoned soon after, bored with it, and Dave leans over him again, fabric from his shirt draping over Dirk's back. He knows that the blood is soaking into it, realizes it'll stain it – fucking _good_. But it isn't long before Dave is actually flush against him, chest pressed to back,mouth dangerously close to Dirk's shoulder. Dave tips his head, nips at it, ghosts his mouth up to bite at the juncture between shoulder and neck, along the curve. They're light nips, barely anything, but every touch of heat seared to his skin and Dirk's breath hitches _just so_. He exhales, breath caught when Dave bites again, and seriously, fuck him for doing this. Because as frustrating as it is, everything is a straight line to his dick, can feel himself straining against his jeans more with every bit of affection Dave showers on him.  
  
His lips make their way up to Dirk's ear where he licks the lobe before murmuring into it, just under his breath, rough. "Might fuck you right here." Dave moves, shifts, just enough so that he can press his hips down against Dirk's ass, rolling them once. "Bet you'd get off on it. Out here in the open where someone could see me on top of you like this. Leave marks all over you just to prove it happened. That for fucking once, Dirk Strider wasn't _hot fucking shit_."  
  
He can _feel_ the curve of Dave's mouth, the way the corner of it picks up against his ear, and he's fucking smirking because he is a monumental douchebag. His tone returns to the normal deadpan; disinterested. "Or maybe not." And then he _fucking gets up_. Dave straight up rolls off him, gets to his feet, grabs his sword and _walks away_.  
  
Dirk can't tell if he's impressed, disappointed, or just pissed off. Alright, scratch the first two. He's just livid. Borders on furious. It takes Dirk a minute to actually collect his thoughts, to have enough thought to gets up and grab his sword and shirt. He takes one breath, then another. Exhales quietly and schools his expression into the same indifference that Dave wears just as well. Fixing his shades, he cards his fingers through his hair to try and get himself at least slightly collected because their apartment is about to be more of a fucking battlefield than what the roof just was.  
  
It was all intentional and Dirk knows it, solidifies this fact when he walks in the apartment and Dave's there waiting for him. Both of them flash step, but Dirk has an edge, grips Dave around the throat and slams his back against the closest wall, fingers tightening briefly to cut off the air flow. He only releases him when Dave opens his mouth to speak. "C'mon, _darlin'_ , you know how it gets me going when you do-" Dirk's hand tightens again, effectively cutting him off. After a few moments, he relaxes to allow Dave to breathe, only to force him back harder into the wall, pinning him with his own body, holding him there when his hand tightens once more around his throat.  
  
The control is a comfort to his irritation, but it's ripped away from him just as easily as he thought he had it back. Dave pushes him, catches an ankle with his foot, sending both of them to the floor. With his back to the floor and Dave on top of him, Dirk screws his face up. "You arrogant shit, I'm going to bleed all over the floor."  
  
Dave gives a shrug, reeking of indifference, before he leans down to kiss him. It is, hands down, the most satisfying thing to happen that day. It's not easy or light or sweet. It's rough, biting teeth to draw blood from lips, bruising them with how hard they press together. Really, it's just another fight for dominance – a point for Dirk, at least, when he manages to draw blood first. Dave tastes similar to him, but there are always things that make them incredibly different. Apple, tree, et cetera. It's copper still, tastes of metal, but when Dirk draws away and the saliva between them is bright red, it's left to him to smirk before yanking Dave back down to him. A false sense of security, he's sure.  
  
But it doesn't stop either of them from pressing closer, from wanting more. It's like an ache that never quite stops, reaching hands that never feel satiated by what they find. Grabbing fingers that curl and twist and grasp and ache ache ache for more than what they are given. They fill so many spaces for each other and thrive off them. Reliant in too many ways.  
  
Except that's part of what drives them closer. Makes them _just like this_. Pushes them to the point of where Dave's straddling him once again, fingers stroking down Dirk's face, memorizing his jaw and pushing shades away from eyes that say too much. If there's a protest for it, the kiss swallows the sound, like it does so many others. Hushed noises and ghosted moans, ones that would hardly be heard between them even if not for the kiss.  
  
Dirk moves to sit up, hates the feeling of the carpet against his skin, but Dave really isn't having any of it. He shoves Dirk back down, grips his shoulders and pins him down into the carpet, holding him there. Dave leans down, dips his head in to press an open mouthed kiss to Dirk's neck. It's hot, wet, sends a chill through him when Dave pulls away for the air to hit wet skin. Dave repeats it, but bites down this time, sucks the spot to leave a light mark behind. Holding Dirk down, he repeats it until he's sucking hard enough for bright red marks to be left across his neck and down to where he drags his teeth over sharp collar bones.  
  
Short of breath and panting, Dirk _might_ be impressed that they've made it this far without giving in and fucking until neither of them could move, but he imagines it's part of Dave reveling in actually managing to keep the upper hand as long as he has. Dragging it out, enjoying it to the fullest extent.  
  
As though on cue, though, Dave shifts and grinds against him like he had on the roof. It's not so much a tease this time, though. It's Dave's hips pressing down into a grind that has them aligning their dicks through their clothes to rub shamelessly against each other. It's so fucking unsatisfying, though. Far from what both of them want. They're both still drenched from the spar, hormones raging, adrenaline on a main line to their brains.  
  
Patience for sex just _isn't there_ , but shit if they won't improvise.  
  
Dave sits up, pulls his shirt off over his head and Dirk can't help but be moderately fucking smug over the splotches of dried blood across them. Ones that he's sure will be mirrored on the floor beneath them, but shit, that could be dealt with at a time that wasn't right now.  
  
Buttons popped and zippers down, it's mostly just a chance to see which of them manages to squirm out of their pants first. Dirk has the upper hand, given his aren't fucking painted on to him like Dave's stupidly awkward skinny jeans. They're both settled again without much of a fuss, but Dave doesn't return to where he'd been before. Rather, hands steady on hips, he leans down between Dirk's thighs and without even a fucking warning, licks a single line up his cock. He barely gives the head attention and it's just another _god damn tease_ and Dirk is almost entirely convinced that he's either going to go insane and kill him, or die. Possibly both, one right after the other.  
  
But god fucking damn when Dave's mouth presses hot against him it's impossible to think of anything. Dave's lips press to the base, sucking up along the length of him before he reaches the tip, laving his tongue over it.  
  
Dirk's on the edge of threatening severe bodily harm before Dave decides to move again. Because obviously focusing on one thing for more than ten seconds isn't in the god damn sex agenda for the day.  
  
"You're getting impatient, I can see it on your face. Bet you'd rather go hump one of your puppets rather than wait on me, huh?" Dave's breathless already as he lines them both up, presses his dick right up against Dirk's. He doesn't move, not yet.  
  
Dirk does, though. Arches his hips to press closer, barely grind against him, because he fucking needs _something_ and his endless patience is wearing rather thin. "Where's Cal? Better lay than you any fucking day."  
  
Which _might_ be what does it, given Dave's bordering-on-crazy disdain for the damn thing. But as soon as that name leaves his mouth, Dave's slicking up his hand before reaching between them. He presses them together, hot as fuck in more ways than one. The length is roughly the same, but Dirk beats him in girth, so the awkward position of Dave's hand is not going to work for them both – which is why Dirk mirrors his actions, wrapping his hand around the opposite side.  
  
Dave's breath catches, hitches in his throat, and both of them start to move just after. They stroke in unison, hands moving up along their dicks. It doesn't last long for them to be pressed together – winds up being a huge fucking inconvenience. Instead, they fist each others cocks, stroke quickly, twisting their wrists. Dirk swipes his thumb over the head, squeezes firm on an upstroke. He can feel Dave tremble above him, thighs shaking. It's that little ounce of control he wanted back, so he takes it, manipulates it and craves more.  
  
They work together to the best of their ability, attempting to keep a rhythm that neither of them can quite get the hang of. Not that it really matters, because neither of them are going to last. Not with how much fucking around they'd done, not after a spar and the way Dave's fingers drew through his blood or the marks down his neck or-  
  
Dirk groans, barely, just under his breath. Hips jerk up once, twice, and he's so fucking close that his own rhythm on Dave's dick is faltering. As much as he'd like to keep the same measured pace as before, focus becomes increasingly difficult.  
  
There's a murmur of his name, right next to his ear. Dave says it again, repeats it. Like this desperate fucking mantra that's too damn good to hear. His eyes flutter shut, focusing on that alone. The way Dave's voice forms his name, the hitched breaths whenever he manages to turn his hand a certain way, how Dave allows the tiniest fucking moans to escape that only Dirk will ever hear. His own breath fans hot against Dave's shoulder, which is all too pale and pristine and fucking _perfect_ , which is why, in one last act of vengeance, he tips his head enough to bite it hard enough until he draws blood, wrenching a moan from the person above him. Dave, for all the patience he doesn't quite have, allows Dirk this one revolt without complaint.  
  
They're both immature about it to the very end, one trying to outlast the other. But Dirk continues with his horrible fucking record of the evening and his orgasm rolls through him first. His hips snap up into Dave's hand, breath caught in his throat, and it's so god damn satisfying. His orgasm spikes through him as he arches his back, freezing as the fucking pain shoots down to meet the adrenaline and _fucking hell_. He comes hard enough that he's breathless, hand barely moving along Dave.  
  
Works out fine, though, since Dave just thrusts up into tightened fingers, fucking his hand until he's following such a shining example. He trembles, briefly, before spilling out across Dirk's hand and over his stomach. It's only when his balance begins to fail that he rolls over to land on the floor beside Dirk, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
Dirk's only response is an amused snort. The bask of an afterglow is interrupted by how fucking disgusting he realizes he feels. Between the sweat and blood and, now, jizz all over his stomach from both of them, Dirk finds himself at least moderately repulsive. Rolling to his side, he kisses Dave once, before getting up for the bathroom to go take an ungodly long shower.  
  
"I'm locking the door, don't even fucking think about it."  
  
Dave doesn't listen, just reaches for his jeans where he's sure there's some sort of shit he can use to pick the lock in his sylladex, just like any other time Dirk gives a bullshit instruction like that. Because shit, he didn't even get laid.


	2. Chapter 2

Finding something to pick the lock is easy enough; child's play, really. They keep enough shit around the apartment to throw together almost anything they might need. Between Dave's crap for working on music and fixing his turntables and Dirk with his robotics, it's just not a surprise that after pulling some shit from this sylladex and rummaging around a work desk that he's able to fashion something that will allow him to unlock the door.  
  
(Besides, it isn't like this is the firs time he's done this.)  
  
In the time it took for Dave to gather up what he needed to pick the lock, the shower is already running and steam funnels out from beneath the door. At least Dirk will be settled enough in his routine that it'll be possible to get in there without immediately having his ass kicked. It also helps that it's given him ample recovery time.  
  
One bobby pin and letter opener later, he jiggles with the doorknob until the lock clicks open; turning it, he barely opens the door wide enough to slip in, closing it behind him before much of the steam is allowed to escape or cool air can rush in along with him.  
  
(He misses the Texas heat, sometimes, as insufferable as it was. But this is easier, being physically closer to everyone else.)  
  
Their shower is obnoxiously large. The one demand that Dirk had, outside of wanting space to work. They skipped getting a tub in favour of it -- multiple shower heads with too many settings. Dave doesn't really get it. You get in, stand under the water, soap up your shit, rinse off, and go. But for Dirk it was like some goddamn ritual he hadn't quite wrapped his head around yet.  
  
He can see the muscles in Dirk's back move when he approaches, the slow tense of them, the only indication he receives that Dirk knows he's there. But he doesn't join him, not yet. Dave just opens the door to the shower stall and watches him move, the stretch and pull of skin over bone and muscle. The wounds on his back have been washed clean, but the outline of them is still so fucking prominent that he really has no trouble following them over skin that's flushed red from the heat of the water.  
  
"This ain't a fuckin' pony show, gotta pay to watch."  
  
Dirk's voice is enough to pull him from his reverie of staring over Dirk's back and each movement and stretch of muscle, he'd mostly just like to- _Well._  
  
The spray of water is hotter than Dave would ever like, but he's far too distracted to actually give much of a shit beyond the initial shock of heat. Nothing is said between them, it's all movement. Dirk's hands plant against the wall, steadies his balance when Dave reaches for his hips. Bending, lips part as he licks a line straight up along his back, running along the valley of flesh over his spine. He stops at his neck, bites down harder than he should, nails digging against hips that are all bone.  
  
Dave's head dips, licks over one of the wounds left on Dirk's back that still tastes vaguely of blood. Too much has been washed away to actually have it bleeding still, but Dave's not concerned. Making him bleed (again) was certainly not the point of this endeavor.  
  
He presses flush against Dirk's back, not a hint of air left between them. Slicked skin and heat and Dave has absolutely _no fucking shame_ when he grinds against Dirk's ass, dropping his head to Dirk’s shoulder, lips ghosting over skin. Mouth curves into a smirk, and Dirk just huffs out a sigh of irritation.  
  
"I already gave you a hand job you insatiable asshole."  
  
Dave shrugs, clearly not at all bothered by this. "And? A hand job isn't the same thing as fucking, dickbag."  
  
Deadpan as he can manage, Dirk tips his head to catch Dave's eyes, his own narrowing. "I thought I told you not to come in here while I was showering? Imperceptive douche."  
  
"Are you really giving me shit?" One of his hands leaves Dirk's hip, nails scraping down over thigh and back up again. It's a bare touch, hardly anything, but he runs the backs of his fingers along the length of him before he _barely_ curls his fingers around him. It's just a stroke or two, enough for Dirk's breath to tremble on his next exhale, and Dave is pretty fucking sure that Dirk might hate him right now, at least a bit.  
  
But it doesn't take long for him to relax, to breathe evenly as Dave works his hand along him. Thumb presses in along a prominent vein, drags up along the length of him, palming the tip as his thumb rubs just under the head. He can feel every reaction that Dirk makes, despite how silent he remains. The way his back tightens, how his hips barely jerk in response to the next upstroke, how his fingers scrape over the tile of the shower wall. Each breath is controlled, deliberate, and the reign on it only shakes when Dave presses his thumb in against the tip of his dick.  
  
Stability is questionable at this point, makes Dirk lean forward into the wall a little further until his forearms are flat against it to support his balance. It isn't helped by Dave, though. Not by now his hand increases in pressure with each stroke along him, by how he stops to circle and rub over his tip each time. It's fucking horrible because it feels _amazing_ but there's just no real satisfaction to it.  
  
Dirk's heavy in his hand, hard and throbbing. The spray of water from the shower head has been knocked to the side, leaving only the roll of water remaining from the shower over Dirk's shoulders and down his chest and arms. The hand that's not currently preoccupied with driving him fucking _insane_ reaches up, ghosts a brush of his fingers over one of Dirk's nipples, and then the other. Over stimulation that he couples with lips dusting uncoordinated kisses along his shoulder and up his neck, nipping just under his ear.  
  
The only real indicator of submission that Dave receives is when Dirk leans back into him, gives up on finding stability on the wall and seeks it out against Dave instead. His reward is just an exhale of breath against his ear, the warmth of Dave's breath fluttering against skin that edges on a groan; satisfied, more than anything. Getting Dirk to give in voluntarily is just as satisfying as pinning him down and keeping him there out of sheer force of strength and will.  
  
No longer needing the assistance of the wall, Dirk reaches back, tangles his fingers into the hair at the back of Dave's head. Twists strands around his fingers a little too tightly, but the pain is just as much of a drive to keep going as anything else might have been. In some design of retaliation, Dave shifts his hips to press his dick right against Dirk's ass, sliding between the cheeks with the assistance of water slicked skin. He rocks against him, just like he would had they been fucking instead of this bullshit messing around. (Again.)  
  
But even their normally denied foreplay had its perks, because Dave rarely got to break him down like this. It was a rare enough sight to have Dirk screw his eyes shut and squirm a little, but to have those lips parted and panting, hips rolling in time with Dave's hand, it was a fucking sight. Not one he was really wanting to let go of any time soon, but _priorities_. They did seem to be more important than keeping Dirk in a fucking enticing sight like this.  
  
Dave presses his lips just next to his ear as his hand slows to a stop, reaching out to turn off the spray from the shower head. Managing to do it while keeping his balance as well as Dirk's is a feat that he'll likely never be able to accomplish again, but he's actually alright with that.  
  
There's a brief whine of protest where Dirk doesn't move despite Dave pushing him to do so. It takes a few murmured calls of his name, a nip to his earlobe, groping his ass with both hands, before Dirk actually deigns to fucking _move_. The problem is that they barely make it to grabbing towels before Dave is reaching for him, hand curling around the back of his neck to lead him to the sink and bend him over the counter.  
  
Reaching over his shoulder to fetch a tub of vaseline, Dirk groans low in his throat. "We're not fucking in the bathroom."  
  
"Fuck off, yes we are." Dave sets the container down, reaching around to curl his hand around Dirk again, squeezing the base before stroking up. "Unless you want to chill like this for a while. Up to you."  
  
The god damn fucking impossible happens when Dirk doesn't give any type of smartass reply; instead, his lips part, huffing out a breath before keening quietly, and shit. Dave's convinced that's about as close to an invitation as he'll be getting from Dirk by now.  
  
His hands are absent from him, but only briefly. Long enough to uncap the tub and scoop out a generous amount of the lubricant, spreading it liberally over his fingers. Dave doesn't bother wiping away what remains, uses it to his advantage when he curls his fingers back around Dirk's cock. Strokes once, twice, and pauses on the next upward movement to swipe his thumb over the tip. Humming in appreciation, he nuzzles lightly at Dirk's shoulder, biting down soon after; just enough to leave a light mark on the skin. "Legs apart." A beat, where Dirk doesn't respond, and Dave removes his hand from his dick long enough to swipe his fingers across Dirk's ass in a light slap. " _Now_."  
  
Dirk shuffles his feet apart until Dave rests a hand on his hip, a signal to stop. Dirk's back dips as he bends forward, finds some sort of stability against the sink, and Dave waits as he watches the muscles relax down along him. Only when he's satisfied does he finally move.  
  
Hovering over Dirk, Dave rests a hand at the base of his spine, presses against it to keep him still as he runs slicked fingers along him, circles that familiar ring of muscle to coat it just as thoroughly as his fingers. Just the tip of his finger dips in, Dirk biting back a sharp inhale of surprise. Dave continues, watches for unfavorable reactions as he slides his finger in half way. Pulling out, in again. Over and over until he manages to sink it inside of him completely.  
  
It's fucking tedious and most of the time Dave does it on purpose. Dirk could take it faster, take more, but Dave just doesn't ever do it. Would rather draw it out in a way that leaves Dirk hanging, leaves him bent over surfaces and whining for him, strung out and turned on to the point of being so far from coherent that Dave wouldn't know what to do with him.  
  
His finger dips back in, and he hears Dirk groan about him being _such a fucking asshole_ , but it's all pointless, no malice or bite to it. Just words of a sexually frustrated jackass. Not that Dave blames him, he gets pretty fucking colourful with his words when Dirk takes his god damn time like this.  
  
While normally there's always that brief moment of telling Dirk to _chill the fuck out_ so that he relaxes more, Dave finds that it's far easier than normal. Working out stress in a strife with an orgasm soon after, followed by a shower? Seems a pretty efficient way to get about getting Dirk to actually chill the fuck out for once.  
  
A rhythm starts soon after, a pushpull of pressing in deep before pulling back out again, and a second finger joins the first. Methodical, really. But Dirk's getting impatient and Dave has no intention of speeding up.  
  
The addition of another finger has Dirk squirming, rolling his hips back to try and force him deeper because _fuck_. It's been far too long since Dave last did this to him, and the memory of it eluded him so very often. Clouded over by how blindsided he becomes by the entire encounter. Dirk squeezes around him experimentally, hisses on an inhale from how much bigger it makes just two fingers feel the next time Dave presses them inside.  
  
This is better than the floor, though. More satisfying in far too many ways. The way Dirk's back curves beneath him or the staccato beat of his inhaleexhaleinhale whenever Dave's fingers move. It's an addicting thing to listen to, every single one of Dirk's noises, the silent breathes that are punctuated with a twitch of his hips or the curving of his fingers around the edge of the sink. Seeing him like this is fucking beautiful and, sometimes, Dave forgets who and what they are. Forgets the relation, forgets the Game, forgets all the bullshit. Because there are times, times like _this_ where it's all about them.  
  
It's about the way Dave fucks him as gently as he can, the way Dirk breathes his name out on an exhale. The shudder that runs up Dirk's spine that leaves him trembling for a moment. It's the marks across Dirk's back from their fight and just how fucking beautiful it looks as a result. It's the way he feels around him; the tight, blinding heat that greets him every time he fucks him and moves and parts his fingers to stretch him.  
  
The next exhale is his name, edges on desperate, and Dave considers giving in. But this-  
  
-it's just too perfect. Because no matter how many times this happens, no matter how many times they're like this, it's never been enough. They could fuck every day, be intimate constantly, and it wouldn't be enough. Dave knows it's a huge fucking problem that they're so completely reliant on each other, that they want and crave and need each other so damn badly sometimes. It's a problem that neither of them are in a rush to fix, though. Because when you lose practically everyone, you find yourself clinging to the ones you need the most.  
  
But neither of them admit it, never vocalize it, because it's _not a problem_ , so why talk about it?  
  
Besides, _this_ is a much better way to waste away their time.  
  
No longer concerned about keeping him still, Dave reaches around to ghost a few fingers up along Dirk's dick, pressing his thumb against the slit at the tip when he reaches it. He can't help but how fucking smug he feels, how fucking satisfied with himself he is. Because Dirk's fucking beading precome like he's already close and Dave's barely done anything yet.  
  
Dave's thumb circles the head as fingers press in again, twisting until they brush against the spot that makes Dirk's freeze and forget what the fuck it means to breathe. It takes a few tries before Dave actually locates it, only having success out of habit, really. Fingers hook inside him, rub over the spot as his thumb strokes back and forth over his tip. Dirk's a panting mess already when he starts to beg.  
  
"Please." A gasp, back bowing beautifully and shoulders shifting. " _Fuck_. Dave, come the fuck on. I am t-tired of your- _your_ -"  
  
Dave's lips curve, a bare smirk. "My-?"  
  
His fingers hook and rub against his prostate again, hand wrapping around his dick properly to stroke him just a few times. Dirk just groans, dropping his head down against the counter top he's been so reliant on for balance. "You fucking _prick_."  
  
Dave can't help but laugh breathlessly, just under his breath, amused more than anything. Because getting Dirk to this point, down to useless insults that have no backing to them, to nothing intelligent. It's definitely up there on his list of  most satisfactory things in Dave Strider's life.  
  
He knows, though. Fully realizes that if he keeps at this, Dirk will be blowing it early and all of this build up won't be for shit. So he knows well enough to reign it in, and his hand once again rests at the small of Dirk's back, fingers pressing in just above his tailbone. Keeps his steady as he works his fingers around.  
  
"S-Stop screwing around and _fuck me_ , Dave. Jesus shitting c- _christ_ do I need to spell it out for your oblivious, nimrod brain, or do you think that I have sufficiently conveyed it in a language that you can under-" A breath, exhales a groan, pressing back into fingers. "-fucking stand."  
  
And alright, alright. Dave can take a hint, even when it becomes less a hint and more just an outright demand. Because he knows that he's been dragging this out way too damn long, considering he was the one that broke in on Dirk in the first place, dragged him from his 'daily ablutions', as he called them, and shoved him up against a bathroom sink.  
  
Ignoring his own arousal had been at least _slightly_ possible when he'd been focusing on working Dirk up into a god damn frenzy, but with that no longer in the forefront of his mind, Dave can't help but reach down with the hand that had once been on Dirk's back to track his fingers up along the underside of his shaft, breathing out a groan when he does. Precome beads at the tip, swiping it away with the pad of his thumb before reaching for the lubricant again.  
  
Once he's taken enough to coat his dick, Dave removes his fingers and smears the remainder of the vaseline across Dirk's entrance for good measure. Gone enough not to care, he reaches to smear his hands across the hand towel on the counter, knowing full and well that it will fucking offend Dirk for the rest of the night. At least, for the time being, he's sufficiently distracted.  
  
Dave bends over him, chest to Dirk's back, much like it had been up on the roof. One hand gropes one cheek of his ass, digs fingers into flesh. Gives him ample room to hold Dirk open for him, just a bit; makes it marginally easier for them both. Lining himself up, Dave rests his forehead against the back of Dirk's shoulder, taking his time as he presses forward. It's tight and hot and fucking overwhelming and _god_ what the fuck was he supposed to be doing again? Because all he manages to recall is _Dirk, Dirk, Dirk_ and breathes out his name as he sinks in by an inch or two. It's enough to give Dirk ample time to adjust before Dave's pulling back again, just to where it's only the head of his cock inside.  
  
He repeats the movement, rolling his hips to press deeper each time, taking the same leisurely pace. It's less about allowing Dirk to adjust, because he knows full and well that he could fuck him right proper now and it would be fine, but it's not about that. Not about fucking him until Dirk can't remember how to breathe. Not about slamming him over the edge and making him come until his knees give out. While those _are_ both things Dave loves to do, it's not about that right now.  
  
It's just this certain level of intimacy between them. A slow movement that claws through them both, rakes them over hot coals and sets them alight with just how damn badly they need this. Need each other. Because it's only Striders that understand each other – the rest of them, their friends, are small time. Get certain parts and not the whole. So this is it. Everything they share together, the most vulnerable parts of them.  
  
Just like this.  
  
Dave's fingers curve around hips, pulling Dirk back against him and rolling his hips to press as deep as he can. Breath comes out in quiet pants against Dirk's shoulder, gripping him for dear fucking life as he rocks his hips as slow as he can. Neither of them want a hard, insistent, rough fuck right now. Just in this moment, they need this. This push and pull and Dave holding enough control and power that Dirk can let go and stop being wound up so damn tight.  
  
The angle of his hips changes after a handful more thrusts, Dave shifting enough to change just by an inch or two. But it's enough that, when he thrusts in next, he actually gets a fucking noise out of Dirk. It's soft, a sharp inhale of breath, and the next time it's a hushed moan. Quiet enough it doesn't echo within the room, but damn if it doesn't reverberate in Dave's head, makes him grind in a bit harder on his next thrust.  
  
Once both of them adjust, find a rhythm, it's so damn easy to move together. For Dirk to rock his hips back against him in order to meet Dave part way, for Dave to know _just_ the right moment to grind in against him to push deeper. Works impossibly well for them both. It's maddening, though. The pace that they keep, how slow it is. As much as they want it, it's so difficult to keep it the longer they fuck, because having Dave inside of him is something that makes Dirk want to melt down and make the most tempting noises he can until Dave fucks him into the floor and makes it impossible to remember his own name.  
  
(And really, what's stopping him?)  
  
Dave's not expecting it when he hears his name, taken completely off guard when Dirk gives one of the _filthiest_ moans that he's ever heard out of his mouth. More follow; sounds of filth and temptation, wanton and desperate, like there's this neediness that's clawing its way up Dirk's throat and flowing from his mouth. And really, who is Dave to deny such things? Like the echo of Dirk's voice in the room isn't enough to drive him entirely _insane_.  
  
The pace picks up after that, hips snapping forward, driving into him. Less measured now, in a way that Dirk can't quite keep up with. Dave presses flush against his back and fucks him deep, grinds against him every few thrusts before pulling out and slamming back again. It's not so much rough as it is insistent, like Dave can't quite get enough of him.  
  
(Which is, and always has been, the truth.)  
  
Mouth presses to shoulder, up to Dirk's neck, open mouthed kisses left every time lips connect to flesh, teeth scraping over it wherever he hasn't already left a mark. It's impossible, really, to let so much of his skin go passed over without laying some claim to it. But the more bites he leaves behind, the louder and more desperate Dirk's whines become. And, as though it's a last ditch effort to get his attention, the next time Dave pushes inside of him, Dirk tightens around him with a loud keen.  
  
Which _might_ actually gain Dave's attention.  
  
Having been neglecting him for far too long, one of Dave's arms circles Dirk's waist to hold him back against him so that he's able to keep the pace going. Opposite hand reaches down, hand curling around his dick to stroke him in time with every thrust of his hips while he fucks Dirk up against the counter. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes, only drowned out whenever Dirk manages to let out another obscene noise in order to push Dave a little further.  
  
With the addition of stroking Dirk in time with his own movements, the two of them aren't far from finishing. Admittedly exhausted, even more so now, Dave will later be surprised by how long they managed to hold out.  
  
Dave tilts his head up, breathes Dirk's name into his ear, and it's enough to send him over the edge. He spills over Dave's hand, much less than before, dribbling down onto the counter beneath them that he's still propped against. The force of it alone has Dave following after only a few more thrusts with the way Dirk's muscles contract around him.  
  
Burying his face in against the juncture of neck and shoulder, he practically _whines_ Dirk's name as he comes, slowly losing any real ability at holding himself together.  
  
They both take time to come down from their high, catching their breath and learning to use whatever muscles will still respond to them. Dave pulls away, Dirk turning to kiss him, once, before they both return to the shower. Everything is weighed down now, each movement slower than it should be. Exhausted in the afterglow, but a shower desperately needed by both of them now.  
  
Washed and less disgusting, they both crawl into Dave's bed together, beginning to fall asleep without a word. At least until-  
  
"You're cut off, by the way." Dirk mumbles, already close to falling asleep.  
  
It's enough for Dave's eyes to fly open again, despite the exhaustion that settles. He's tired enough that he has no qualms about the hint of a whine in his voice. "What, why?"  
  
"Because," Dirk yawns, slinging an arm across Dave's waist and scooting up closer to him for both warmth and comfort, "teach you to interrupt my ablutions. Asshole."  
  
Unfortunately, cut off or not, the only thing Dave manages to _actually_ learn is that Dirk is just as guilty as Dave is about allowing interruptions of their favourite activities when it comes to certain people.


End file.
